


upstairs, upstairs

by Anonymous



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: (joking about) Daddy Kink, Anal Play, Creampie, F/M, Orgasm Denial, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Quickies, Reader-Insert, Thanksgiving, and a dash of, because why the fuck not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Brian's visiting your family for the holidays, but you both have other plans.
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Reader
Comments: 17
Kudos: 56
Collections: Anonymous





	upstairs, upstairs

**Author's Note:**

> Look, we all RPS here, but this is an extra special level of RPS, and you cannot judge me, because I walk backwards into Hell with my eyes wide open and my whole ass on display.
> 
> If your name is in the tags and you're reading this: 
> 
> call me.

You can still hear the noise downstairs when you close the door to your old room. _We're just going to go put on comfortable clothes_, you'd said just minutes ago, but when you turn to face Brian it's clear from his expression that he's got the same thing on his mind as you do.

Seeing him in your old bedroom's a trip, a total tonal mismatch between the comfort of the old wood and laundry soap smell and the thrill of the way he makes your stomach drop out from underneath you when he smiles, wicked and sure, and closes the distance between you. Your back hits the door, and his mouth is on yours, the _whoof_ of your breath against his lips as he palms your chest and pins you under him.

It'd be too fast, in any other circumstances, but he's had that _look_ in his eyes since well before dinner. Not even the classic knit sweater and the button-down and the pressed slacks could hide the way he's looked at you, could make his hand _that high_ on your thigh at dinner anything but an invitation for this very thing. You've had a long time to simmer. 

"How fast can you come?" you ask when he pulls back, cutting straight to the chase. His mouth is—oh, it's so red already, matching the bruised-peach feel of your own.

"Hah—how quiet can you be," he answers with his own question. You smile in response and he dips in again, kisses you with a smattering of quick, sneaky kisses down your jaw, your neck. You grab the shoulders of your sweater and move to pull it over your head, but he shakes his head. "Leave it on for now," he says, punctuating his words with a sharp squeeze before sliding his hands down your sides to slip under your waistband, over your ass. "M'gonna fuck you like this."

Your head thunks against the door as he hauls you onto his thigh, the pressure of him against you like a full body rush. "We've gotta change anyway," you sigh, shifting your weight to take advantage of it.

You can feel the teeth of his smile against your neck. "So it doesn't matter," he says. "God, I've wanted to—I've wanted to fuck you for _hours_, just—take you into a side room, pull down your pants—" he's sliding your pants down as he speaks, just enough to bare your ass to the cold wood door. "—bend you over a little and slide right up into you—you could be quiet for me, right, baby? Or would you need my hand over your mouth, too?"

"Please," you gasp, arching so you can press against his thigh where it aches. His fingers clench against your ass in response, rocking you against him. "I can't, though, I can't come that fast—"

Brian makes a pitying noise, right under the shell of your ear. You can feel his breath in your hair, the brush of his mustache against the delicate skin there that sends skittery feelings down your spine. "That's too bad, baby," he croons, "But I'll make it up to you later, won't I? Hmm?"

_There's_ a thought. You moan as the sense memory of Brian's hands on you, _in_ you, courses through you. How fucking quiet he gets when he puts his mouth to work on you instead of talking, every part of his fractious attention pulling in the same direction and focused entirely on taking you apart. 

He takes the hitch in your breath as the confirmation it is, pulling away only to give you room to move around him. He gives you a little shove as you pass, his hand flat between your shoulderblades as he guides you to kneel on the bed.

Enough's different, but enough's the same that it still feels illicit, when he pulls your pants the rest of the way off your hips, then your underwear. The posters are gone, and the ever-present piles of teenage detritus too, and the bed's upgraded from a double to a queen, but that just means there's more room for him to get up behind you on it, pressing you down until you're flat on your chest with your ass up for him.

You hear the clink of his belt buckle, the quiet _zzzp_ of his zipper—the almost-silent sigh as he takes himself in hand, the—the sound of his hand on his cock, loud because you're craning for it, suddenly so hungry for it, knowing you'll get it when he's good and ready to give it to you.

The space between intention and action is _intolerable_, thrumming against the part of you that's thrilled knowing _just how little time_ you have for this delight.

His other hand alights on your asscheek, his thumb dipping between your folds to where you're already slick and warm. "Oh, babe," he says, "you've been thinking about it too, huh."

You tuck your head in the crook of your arms and nod, canting your hips up into his touch. He makes an appreciative noise as he spreads you with one hand, and his thumb smears the wetness up and around, the flat of his thumb circling your hole and just dipping inside.

"Come on, quicker," you urge him, and he hums and digs his thumb into you, dragging it up and up until you gasp as he presses it flat and insistent against your asshole instead. "_Brian_," you hiss, partly scandalized and a much larger part of you—something else; mark you down for embarrassed _and_ horny.

"Bet I could," Brian murmurs, and leans down to press a kiss to the dimples at the base of your spine. His thumb slips in, easy-as-you-please, and you swallow a groan into the bend of your elbow. "Bet you'd let me. Wouldn't you."

"Brian," you say again, and you don't know—you don't know what you're begging for: for him to get on with it, or for him to turn this car onto the off-ramp that leads to something that'll definitely take longer than you can explain to your family downstairs. It feels out of your hands, a little, and the pretense of helplessness makes something deep in your stomach shiver with want.

"You'd take it _so_ well, wouldn't you," Brian says, pulling away, and you hold your breath as you can feel him draw to his knees behind you. _Gorgeous,_ he breathes out, and then the blunt head of his cock is bumping up against you and finding the place where your body gives easily to him, sliding into you—both of you exhaling, groaning, trying to be quiet as you break open for him and he fills you in one slow slide.

You can feel the metal of his belt buckle dig into you as he bottoms out and stays there, little movements of his hips grinding his cock deep inside you. "God—damnit," you curse, and he laughs, and shushes you as he snaps his hips and you inhale something that wanted to be a yelp, instead.

"Ssh, come on, you're gonna get me in trouble," Brian murmurs into your hair, and you make a frustrated noise as you smother your face in the pillow, like it's _your_ fault. You feel his hands circle your waist, holding you up and holding you still as he starts fucking you with even, steady thrusts. "Just when they've started to like me, too," he continues, conspiratorially. "Maybe they'd give me a pass this time, though."

You tilt your head enough for your questioning noise to escape the pillow, which is a mistake, because he digs his fingers in and pulls you back onto him, and it comes out louder than you thought. He shushes you again, soothing the embarrassment of it with a flurry of kisses against your hairline, down the back of your neck. _Damn him_.

"Do you know," he starts, and you can _hear_ the smile in his voice, "how many times I've been asked today if we're gonna have kids?"

_God_, he knows you so well, because the noise that leaves your mouth is unstoppable, and his hand's already over your mouth before you can make a mess of the game. You muffle your response into his palm as he fucks into you hard a few times, riding the way the thought makes you clench around him instinctively, pulsing in your core.

"Guess we just need more practice," Brian continues, "We'll get it some day. You're already so good at giving me _this_ whenever I want it, aren't you, sweetheart." And it's not—you're protected, obviously, the thought of it makes your rational brain—well—of _course_ you shouldn't—but your body _loves_ the thought, loves his big broad body holding you down, fucking you hard, bending your body to his and _making_ you—

Your _fuck you_ is intelligible, even with his palm over your mouth, and he giggles as he picks up his pace. "Don't worry, baby," he says, breathless with his own wit, "you're the only one I want calling me daddy."

"Fuck _you_," you manage when you repeat yourself, this time completely audible as his hand slips from you to brace against the bed for leverage, and he laughs even louder at that, echoing off the walls of the small room. You squeeze your eyes shut and hope you can play it off as innocent, but you're laughing too, and so you're _both_ laughing when Brian breaks first, barely a minute later; when he crumples against you, soundless, snapping his hips a few more times as he breathes out, shuddering, skidding sideways into his orgasm.

It wasn't—it wasn't _nearly_ enough, but the thought doesn't sting at all as Brian slumps over you, pressing kiss after kiss against your skin. "Promise, promise, _promise_, I will pay that back, with interest," he mumbles into your shoulderblade.

The whole room seems to breathe into the silence, and everything is warm and impossibly, messily wet when he slips from you, soft and sated. Brian reaches down and grabs the waistband of your pants, your underwear, pulling them up over you. You roll over and crinkle your nose at him, going _blegh_ as the mess he's made shifts and spreads, but he just leans in and kisses you, sweetly.

"We were getting changed anyway," he parrots back to you, slipping his hand between your legs to cup you through your pants. His fingers press in, and it aches like a bruise you don't want to stop touching. "Wish I could leave you like this, though."

You grab his face and haul him in for a kiss, throwing your leg over his hip and trapping him, trapping his hand between you. You can feel him smile as he obliges you, rubbing harder, his come seeping through your underwear as he only winds you up tighter before he pulls his hand away, too soon. You whine at him, but he just smiles and slides his hand down your thigh, holding you close.

"Don't hate the player, _baybee_," he sing-songs, and you groan as he kisses you one more time and rolls to his knees. "Come on. I'm gonna absolutely murder your cousins in charades."

And he will, probably, because no one gets between Brian and winning a theatre game, and later when everyone's gone to sleep you have no doubt he'll make good on his promise, and then some. But for now, you take his hand and let him pull you to your feet, embracing him for a few more moments of quiet before it's time to go back downstairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment moderation is on, my shy babes. Let me know if you don't want 'em unscreened.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [backdoor, backdoor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23845891) by [Trigonometrical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical)


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